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How old was I then?

I don't remember. Four? Five? Maybe six.

I don't know. But the walls were white.

Not pearly or cream or warm white, but that hospital white. Blank. Cold. White like silence. White like fear.

I remember the smell of bleach. Of old curtains. Of fabric softener that failed to hide mildew.

I remember shadows under the door. And a narrow window too high for me to reach, painted shut.

That place was away from the estate - not the house, not my house - just a house.

Not even a house. A holding pen.

It was small. Clean. Quiet. Clean things are easier to ignore when they scream.

They called it a villa. But there were no family portraits. No warmth. No familiarity.

Only servants. Always watching.

Always cleaning.

Always smiling like they'd been given orders to. That was the trick, wasn't it? To look cared for. Like I was a child, not an... inconvenience.

Maids in black uniforms and white aprons drifted around like ghosts.

Manservants wore suits and gloves and avoided eye contact unless spoken to.

Not by me- I wasn't someone who gave commands. Back then, I was something to be managed.

"Please don't run indoors, young master."

"Don't touch that."

"Don't cry. You'll trouble the staff."

Always with the 'young master.' Never my name. I don't think they knew it. Or maybe they weren't allowed to say it. Names make people real.

Questions. Right.

That's when I first started asking them.

Not out loud. Not at first. Just inside my head.

Why do they never touch me?

Because they don't want to. Because I'm not theirs. Because my skin carries his blood, and that makes me expensive and inconvenient.

Why does father never visit?

Wrong. He did. Once. Twice. I don't remember his face, only the way the maids straightened their backs when he walked in. He smelled like cologne and disinterest. I wanted to ask him a question - just one. But I didn't know which one.

So I said nothing.

He left after 13 minutes.

Thirteen. I counted. I always counted.

Why does the head maid flinch when I smile?

Maybe it's because I smiled too wide. Maybe it's because I asked her if she thought birds screamed when they died.

I only wanted to know. Her hands trembled as she served my tea that day. She was gone the next.

They rotated maids often after that.

Once, I asked what happened to her. The next day, I was made to kneel in the hall for four hours.

No food. No water. No answers.

That was the first time I tasted iron in my mouth.

I didn't cry.

Not because I was brave. Not because I was strong.

Crying just felt like an inconvenience.

People cry to relief themselves from emotional distress, but when I cry, I felt nothing other than the liquid spilling from my eyes.

Once tears dries, it becomes sticky. Annoying, isn't it?

There was a manservant named Haji. He was old, smelled like books and liniment. He used to bring me riddles written on cards.

I liked those. I liked the feeling of solving something. Making sense of something. Even if the answers were stupid.

"What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three at night?"

A man, I answered. He smiled and patted my head.

That was the last time anyone touched me without flinching.

But then one day, Haji didn't come.

I asked the other manservant what happened.

He stared at me and said nothing. Just handed me a tray with cold soup and walked away.

I began to talk to the furniture.

The bookshelf was wise. The window was kind. The chair creaked when it didn't like what I said.

Sometimes I'd line up dead moths by the windowsill and talk to them, too. They didn't argue.

Once I tried to dissect one, but my hands were too small and clumsy. It broke apart too easily.

Still, it was interesting.

Was it wrong?

I asked myself that. A lot.

Is this wrong?

No one said it was. And the moth didn't scream. So maybe not.

Maybe it's fine.

Maybe everything's fine.

I began to scratch questions into the underside of my bed with a paperclip I found.

Why am I here?

Where is mother?

Why did the butler throw away my drawing?

Why does the doctor check my pupils every week?

Why does it feel better when I imagine them bleeding?

I think I was still sane then.

I think.

Hard to tell.

I remember one day they brought me a puppy.

A golden retriever. Fat little thing. Eyes too big for its skull. Tail wagging like it had no idea what kind of world it had been born into.

I remember how the staff pretended to smile.

"This is for you, young master," one of the younger maids said.

Her voice was trembling slightly.

"He's your new companion."

I remember tilting my head and staring at the creature as it licked my hand.

Warm. Wet. Stupidly trusting.

I named it Silence.

Silence died three days later.

The official explanation was "accident." It fell down the stairs. My door had been unlocked that night. I remember waking up to a yelp. Then more silence.

They cleaned the blood before I woke.

But I saw it. The smear on the marble. The smudge under the railing. Red. So red.

I didn't ask about it.

I didn't want to kneel again.

Instead, I asked myself:

Do things die because they love me?

That answer felt too heavy. So I asked another.

Was Silence trying to speak?

Maybe.

Maybe that was the mistake.

It got colder after that. The villa, I mean. Not the weather. The air. The people.

The smiles became thinner. The staff rotated more frequently. The doctor visits became longer. They asked strange questions.

"Do you ever feel sad?"

"Do you hear voices?"

"Do you understand right and wrong?"

I always smiled and answered politely. Of course I did.

Why did the doctor always look scared after our sessions?

I remember once they tried to bribe me with a train set. Expensive. Beautiful. Still wrapped.

I stared at it for a long time before walking away.

Toys didn't make sense anymore.

Answers were better.

Even wrong ones.

I think... I broke somewhere around... eight.

I don't remember the sound it made. I doubt it was loud. I imagine it was quiet. A small click. Like a door locking shut.

I kept asking questions.

Not because I cared anymore. But because silence was worse.

Because if I stopped, I might hear the screaming.

The screaming that didn't come from anyone else.

Just me.

Somewhere deep, deep down, curled in the dark.

I didn't want to hear that.

Do I hate them?

No.

Do I love them?

No.

Do I feel anything?

...Next question.

Of course, it's curiosity, right? Curiosity makes my world so much brighter.

At least, that's what I thought.

Sometimes I think I'm still there.

In that room. With the white walls. Asking myself the same things over and over again, trying to hold myself together with spider thread and syllables.

Questions are tiring.

But I need them.

I need the routine. The logic. The illusion of movement.

Otherwise, I'll remember what I already know:

That the answers I have?

The ones that make sense?

They're not the ones that will ever save me.

But I don't care.

It's fine.

Everything is fine.

Next question.